White Death

White crystals spread across the table. Clean. Pure. Deadly.
It wasn’t meth. It wasn’t coke. But it killed just the same.
“Sodium chloride. 100% pure. 100% poison.”
Takuto Tsuchiya stared at the pile like a man staring down his own mistakes. He’d been a junkie for this stuff, feeding his addiction every day—bento boxes dripping with grease, fries soaked in oil, ramen that could burn through your veins. He hadn’t just consumed salt. He’d worshipped it.

“Salt’s legal. That’s the real trick. No raids. No arrests. Just addiction, hiding in plain sight.”

Salt doesn’t crash into your life. It seeps in. Slow. Silent. It whispers to your tongue, numbing your senses until nothing tastes right without it. You crave more. Always more. And while your taste buds cheer, your body screams.

Blood pressure climbs. Kidneys falter. And deep inside, your glomeruli—the body’s silent workers—begin to collapse.

“Too much salt? Your glomeruli explode like overinflated balloons. Blood vessels stiffen. Your kidneys choke out. No drama. No noise. Just slow, quiet death.”
Tsuchiya’s voice dropped. Cold. Bitter. “Salt’s not seasoning. It’s meth for the body. Just cleaner. Just quieter. Just as deadly.”

Days ago, the doctor had laid it out in clinical terms. Renal artery stenosis. His kidneys were suffocating, his blood trapped in narrow, hardened vessels. The solution was surgical: a catheter into his left wrist, a balloon expanding the blocked artery. On the monitor, Tsuchiya watched it happen, his life flashing back in reverse.

“Your blood flow is restored,” the doctor said. “But if you don’t change, it won’t last.”
Tsuchiya lay there, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts cutting through the haze.

“I’ll kill the salt. Before it kills me.”

Salt isn’t harmless. It’s not seasoning. It’s a goddamn weapon.
Too much of it, and your heart screams. Your kidneys shatter. Your blood becomes a slow-moving flood of destruction.

But Tsuchiya wasn’t about to let it win. He dumped the shaker. Wiped his table clean. At first, the food was dead on his tongue. Lifeless. But then he began to feel something—real flavor.

The softness of spring water. The earthy bitterness of wild herbs. The untouched umami of clean ingredients. They had always been there, buried under a mountain of salt.

“I don’t need White Death.”
In his dim Fujino kitchen, steam rose from a pot of spring water. Tsuchiya stood still, holding wild herbs in his hands. His voice was low, almost a growl.

“Salt’s the devil’s bait. I’m done biting.”

Breaking free from salt wasn’t just about health. It was about freedom. Like breaking a drug habit, it was painful, raw, but the only way forward.

“Throw it out,” he muttered.
It wasn’t just a command. It was a declaration. A warning. A war cry.